


Different points of view

by tomoewantsdolls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomoewantsdolls/pseuds/tomoewantsdolls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The same time lapse, bit after the events of The Great Game (after a different result where there is some kind of explosion), from different points of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before the 2nd season, so an AU it is...
> 
> (I had the help of a fantastic beta, juliacarmen on LJ, but any remaining mistake is totally my fault)

Something’s wrong, but I don’t know exactly what it is. Certainly something is misplaced. I’m floating, numb, try to open my eyes but my eyelids feel heavy, try to move my body but I get no response from my limbs. That’s not good, is it?

After a while (minutes? hours?), I try to move again. Still no response. Then I hear a voice, a deep, soft voice… Sherlock’s voice, definitely.

I flinch, remembering a threat that I can’t identify. My limbs seem to reconnect with my brain.

“Sherlock!” My eyes open at once, searching for his long figure, but I find an empty room. Baker Street.

Am I in Baker Street? That’s odd, I don’t remember coming here. The last thing I remember is… the last thing is… Oh! My head is a mess. Think, John, think… I grab my hair with both hands till my head aches a bit. My heart races, all I can hear is the pounding in my chest. I remember being at the flat. Then I went out, heading for Sarah’s place and… and... Oh God, the pool!

“Sherlock?!” My heart is racing so fast that I can barely breathe. There’s nobody here, there’s nob…

“Calm down, John.”

I turn towards the voice. How long has he been standing there, right next to me?

“Wh-where have you been? I didn’t hear you come in! What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“This fidgeting isn’t doing you any good.”

“I’m not fidgeting! I’m calm. I’m fine.” More or less. Actually, I just noticed a worryingly sharp pain in my chest. A broken rib? When? The pool, obviously. (Hm, too much time spent with Sherlock, I’m borrowing his lines.) But how? I can’t remember.

“Sherlock, please tell me what’s going on. I’m freaking out.”

“The doctors think you’re doing fine. They’re being cautious in their assessments, but I can tell: they’re easy to deduce. They think you’ll be fine.” He grins. I frown. I start to ask exactly what the doctors had told him, when I hear a woman’s voice behind Sherlock.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I talk to my friend?”

“Who is she?” I want to know.

“But Mr Watson is... indisposed! He’s...”

“Dr Watson, actually.” Nobody seems to listen to me.

“You’re hovering. Don’t you have better things to do? Nick some Oxycodone for a little after-work high? Spread malicious gossip about the Viagra fiend with the record-breaking erection next door? Maybe you should go home to your hoard of cats that--” I hear footsteps and a stifled sob as the nurse hurries out. I wonder distractedly if one of Mrs Turner’s “married ones” is a Viagra fiend, and what the record for priapism is, before recalling how Sherlock’s words had affected the woman (I’ve definitely spent too much time in his company. Not that I’m complaining, mind).

“That’s cruel, Sherlock.”

“Well, she’s annoying.”

“But she doesn’t deserve that. Whoever she is.” The pain in my chest is growing. Two broken ribs? Three?

I realize that I am standing in the middle of the sitting room, and feel a sudden need to sit down. Moving towards the sofa I hear a soft beep. Where is it coming from? It’s rhythmic, sounding like--

“Listen.” Sherlock whispers in my ear, startling me.

“What the…?” His habit invading my personal space is a bit unsettling.

“I’m sorry.”

That’s… unexpected.

“I’m really sorry.” A pause. Did he just hesitate? “I would understand if you… I won’t stop you if you decide to move.”

“What? I don’t intend to… Sherlock! What have you done? Put a dead body in the loo? Wait, I told you my mug wasn’t for experiments!” The pain in my chest grows and my vision blurs.

“I understand that I’m not a good influence, not for you.” Sherlock continues softly. “That’s obvious. I put your life in danger at least once a day--”

“At least,” I grin. “Sometimes six times before breakfast.” And I enjoy it, even crave it. Is this madness?

“Though I could reduce that rate by keeping the biohazards out of the kitchen,” he mutters.

“Yes. Wait, did I hear you right? I need to sit down.” My vision is becoming increasingly foggy. I close my eyes for a second. The beeping is getting louder. The sofa feels odd, not sofa-like at all...

Sherlock’s soft, deep voice vibrates in my ear, making me dizzy. “I, hmm, I don’t want you to go, John.”

I’m puzzled. Why would he think I’m leaving? It’s comfortable here. My head is spinning and my ears buzzing (a concussion? When did I hit my head?). The thought of leaving, of living a different life, with no mad chases across London, no dramatic unmaskings of murderers and conmen... It’s unsettling. I don’t want my life to change. It’s fine. It’s all fine (except perhaps for those biohazards in the kitchen. They can go).

“The fact is that everything is… less boring with you around, John.”

I smile. “Likewise, Sherlock.”

The buzzing in my ears is slowly fading, now the rhythmic beep is clearer. I open my eyes, which water a little in the glare of the lighting, and close them again. When did I lie down? Oh, of course, that’s it, it all makes sense now. My head feels clearer by the second, though the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor is becoming the aural equivalent of Chinese water torture. I open my eyes slowly, adjusting to the LED glare of hospital lighting. Baker Street had been a dream. Had my conversation with Sherlock been part of the dream? His voice had seemed so real.

I roll my head to the right, taking in the monitors and IV drips, the oxygen concentrator, and Sherlock. I feel a surge of pure joy at seeing the mop of black curls resting inches from my right knee. I’d like to think it’s the painkillers making me high, not Sherlock sitting by my bedside like the lovesick heroine in a soap. My smile widens, and I stretch my arm as far as I can, until my fingers manage to brush against his curls.

“I’m not going anywhere.”


	2. Sherlock

The nurse is gone, finally! Lestrade will not return for at least half an hour (45 minutes if he runs into Mrs Hudson), and no other visitors (Mycroft) should be annoying me at this hour. I have mastered the art of hoisting myself into and out of the wheelchair in spite of the heavy, abominably itchy casts. John’s room should not be difficult to find.

The black-suited babysitter Mycroft set on me holds open the door with a wink, promising to turn the doctors and nurses away so my absence will not cause undue alarm. (He owes me a favour for covering up his idiocy during a jewellery heist at Mycroft’s manor last year.)

I note that the corridor is empty, the nurses having congregated in their break room to exchange malicious gossip over cups of sour coffee. I push the wheelchair down the corridor as quickly as I can, past the nurses’ station where a lone nurse is busy reading a trashy novel.

I duck my head as I roll past, the wheelchair gliding in perfect silence (having been carefully oiled with the salad oil from my otherwise untouched lunch).

I can’t help smiling as I reach John’s room seven minutes later. It was almost too easy, though my heart is now racing from the effort of manoeuvring the wheelchair, and there is an unpleasantly sharp pain in my chest. Mycroft’s other minion is missing from his post in front of John’s door, probably off flirting with that buxom young nurse with the dyed blonde hair. I’ll scold Mycroft later for the incompetence of his staff. I manoeuvre myself backwards into John’s room and carefully close the door.

I take a deep breath before turning towards the bed, and feel another sharp stab of pain in my chest at what I see lying there.

“John.” My throat is painfully dry. I try to clear my voice. “Hello, John. I thought I’d stop by for a visit.” I sound stupid. How aware would someone as comprehensively medicated as John be of his surroundings? Not enough data on hospital sedation, I should do some research once Lestrade has brought me John’s laptop.

I decide to keep talking as if John can hear me. Odd. It happens a lot when I’m near him: my doing things without any logic or reason. “What have you done to me, John?”

The beep of his heart monitor begins to speed up. 69 bpm, 82 bpm, 97 bpm. He is twitching, dreaming of panic and confusion.

“Calm down, John. This fidgeting isn’t doing you any good.” A frown line appears between his brows. Is he in pain? The painkillers must be wearing off. His face looks terrible, pinched and grey. The bandage around his head makes him look oddly small and helpless.

I lift the sheet to evaluate the rest of the damage: crushed ribs, dislocated left hip, second degree burns along the right half of his body, innumerable cuts, scrapes and bruises. Oh, John. John, I...

“The doctors think you’re doing fine.” I swallow with difficulty. They had said it would be a long recovery, that some of the damage may be permanent, that they couldn’t rule out the possibility of brain damage... “They’re being cautious in their assessments, but I can tell: they’re easy to deduce. They think you’ll be fine.” I grin encouragingly, as if he could see me, and his face seems to relax, the frown line between his brows fading a little. I could have imagined it, though. I admit to myself (if never to anyone else) that painkillers affect my skills of observation a bit.

“What are you doing here?”

I jump in alarm, not having heard anyone come in. Her voice was familiar. She was one of the nurses I had heard gossiping as I slipped past the nurses’ break room. “Can’t I talk to my friend?”

She crosses her arms, which are riddled with old scratches, and looks at me doubtfully, apparently unable to believe I have any friends. “But Mr Watson is... indisposed! He’s...”

Unconscious, damaged, in pain. I know. I don’t need a flat-footed nurse to remind me. I wrinkle my nose, noticing the faint reek of cats. There are hairs on her uniform that she had missed with her lint roller. “You’re hovering. Don’t you have better things to do?”

I notice that her speech is hesitant and a little slurred. I look up at her tired eyes, her shoulders sagging with fatigue, a light sheen of sweat on her face and neck. Her pupils are slightly smaller than the harsh LED lights would account for. “Nick some Oxycodone for a little after-work high? Spread malicious gossip about the Viagra fiend with the record-breaking erection next door?”

Her lips tremble as she attempts to look offended, managing only to look ashamed. One more deduction and I’m shot of her. “Maybe you should go home to your hoard of cats that--”

She turns and flees the room. I sigh and turn back to John. His frown seems to have deepened again. Oh, that was probably a bit not good, what I had said. John would think badly of me if he had heard it.

“Well, she’s annoying.” Is a fact, but it sounds like a poor excuse.

I pull the wheelchair closer to the bed. I'm tempted to shake him awake. He would look up at me and I would be free of this constant, distracting worry. I lean over the mattress as far as I can (not being able to bend my right leg is... uncomfortable to say the least). Would he smile at me when he wakes? Or would he be upset?

“Listen,” My throat hurts again and I pause, at a loss for what to say. Well, first things first. “I’m sorry.” I sigh, I can do this. “I’m really sorry.” You’re hurt and it’s my fault. “I would understand if you...” blame me, hate me, leave me... ugh, it’s an uncomfortable thought. “I won’t stop you if you decide to move.” I frown. That was a lie; and he would know it if he could hear me. But it seems that I cannot stop talking now I’ve started, and it’s making me panic. “I understand that I’m not a good influence, not for you. That’s obvious. I put your life in danger at least once a day. --Though I could reduce that rate by keeping the biohazards out of the kitchen.” Perhaps I should have kept that information to myself. He might wake to ask exactly which biohazards have nearly killed him without his noticing.

But I’ve done good things for him as well, haven’t I, however selfishly motivated? I could create a safe storage space for those biohazards, if it would keep him with me. “I, hmm,” Words are choking me. I enjoy his company. I can’t tell him, but he must know, he’s not an idiot like other people. Despite all the risks, the death threats, the bit-no-good things I say and do, he stays, he always stays. “I don’t want you to go, John.”

I stare down at him for a while. He’s doing fine, he’ll be fine, and we’ll solve crimes and chase criminals again. “The fact is that everything is… less boring with you around, John.”

I ease myself back into the wheelchair, feeling suddenly very tired. I lean forward and rest my head upon the mattress, just for a few minutes to regain my strength before returning to my room.

I must have dozed off, however, because I imagine John talking to me, brushing his fingers against my hair, assuring me he’s not going anywhere.


End file.
